Vicissitudes
by SadeLyrate
Summary: Sam stumbles into a snare set up by a Bunny, its little heart filled with a flare for angst. AU after the beginning of 2x10. Potential spoilers for both seasons.
1. Verisimilitude

Summary: A man walks into a bar... First venture into a longer story that I'm 'publishing'. No Mary Sues, no character death. One-sided slash.  
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.  
Thank You: Especially to **wild wolf free17**, who graciously betaed this length of lunacy...that means that the mistakes remaining are a cunning lot indeed. And completely mine.

_Spoilerish for **2x09**. Also highly likely to be AU. Because honestly, if Kripke & co. will pull a stunt like this... :D_

* * *

**Vicissitude:  
Verisimilitude**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The clouds above promised rain, the blacktop dull in the twilight, the neon lights' reflections dim. He'd followed the trail here, the seductive smell that was all about unfulfilled potential, betrayal, nightmares.

Duane Tanner shrugged, the coolness biting through his jacket, his unerring steps easily leading him up the stairs, past the people out for a smoke, into the bar. Hardly early hours anymore, so there was crowd enough. And alone, hermit's aura around him, the man whose scent had attracted the other man. Hunched, shoulders pulled in, head bowed, he was a far cry from the tall man he'd been hardly over a week ago.

Memories caressed through his mind, bitter-sweet and so suggestive it was just too bad nothing but ache had come from it.

_Time to pick up where we left off..._

As casually as he could manage, he ordered a beer, watched out of the corner of his eye the dull-gazed man down rest of the bottle in his hands, request another. The cast on his right arm was away, but he seemed to still favour his left. There was a backpack at his feet, a duffel next to it.

"Sam?" He called, curious.

The man looked up sharply, blinking away bleariness. There was redness to the eyes, brightness so close to what had been in them the night in River Grove.  
Confident enough not to get a fist flashing out at him now, Duane stepped closer. _Not close enough really, but...he welcomed female wiles, up until they'd tried a bit of bonding. Male? Who knew?_

Despite the slight slant to Sam's appearance, the hazel eyes were wary upon him, the face closed, the cogwheels trying to turn in tar.

"It's me, Duane Tanner. Remember? River Grove, _Night of the Living Dead_?"

Mute nod, quick, hollow smile, eyes turning back to the bottle in his hands, some of the tightness in his shoulders slipping loose.

_Well, this'll be easy..._

"You okay?"

Sideways glance at him, slight smirk with a bit more sincerity to it than before.

"Yeah. Just needed a drink." The voice was quiet, rough around the edges. "And you? You and Sarge still together?"

"Nah," he answered, shrugging, sipping his own beer. "Mark dropped me off several miles out of River Grove. He wanted to go north, I wanted to go south, so..."

Sam straightened a bit, glanced around himself, returned his eyes back to the younger man beside him.

"So how'd you end up here?"

"Hey, I'm not half-bad hiker. And there was this nice old lady who gave me a ride on her way here."

Sam chuckled at that, tipped his bottle.

"What about you?" Duane looked around the bar, his brow furrowing after a breath. "Where's...Dean, was it?"

The hazel eyes darkened, the lines of Sam's face settled briefly into a scowl, not facing him.

"Doesn't matter."

Silence stalked the air around them, weighted with wariness.   
Duane cleared his throat, took a swig of his own beer.

"So, uh..." Sam stared at the label, shoulders hunched, drawn in on himself again. Duane bit his lip. "What happened?"

"What the fuck does it matter?" Quiet, bitter, another draught drowning further words.

"Hey..." Tentative, fingers brushed against the long digits wrapped around the bottle. Sam cast him a glance, faltering in his caution. "It doesn't. I just thought...I don't know." He withdrew his hand slightly, let it rest on the bar, easily within reach, his eyes holding Sam's. "You two seemed to be pretty tied up with each other. So I guess I just thought he'd be, you know, somewhere close by...?"

Mirthless chuckle, the hard eyes turning back to the bottle, fingers rising to scratch at the label's corner.

"You wanna talk about it?"

The muscles stilled, grabbed a new hold, tipped more of the beverage into Sam.

"Not really."

Duane shrugged, fingers lightly touching Sam's shoulder as he changed his pose, leaned his elbows against the bar, eyes on the tall man.

"So then we don't. We can just sit here, complain how lousy our favourite team's been lately, brag about our finest catches, plan how much better off the world'd be if only we could run the country for a minute."

There was genuine joy in the spark that twinked in Sam's eyes, in the smile that flashed over his lips, revealing teeth, deepening dimples.

"Or then I can just leave you to your beer and go see where I could crash for the night." He pushed himself off the bar, watched with keen curiosity as Sam's shy fingers reached out, halted to hover inches in front of his chest. There was weariness to the man's voice as he spoke quietly.

"No...it's...company's good. Alone I'd just..." He rolled his eyes, shook his head slightly. "Let's just say there's been a lot of weird shit hitting the fan lately."

"'Weird shit'?"

"Not really anything I'd like to dwell on."

"Maybe I could help with that?"

Another joyless chuckle, hazel eyes steadfast on the bottle again.

"Our level 'weird shit'. Which essentially means the nice men in white coats are coming to take me to the funny farm within the first five minutes if I open my mouth."

There was resentment in the voice now, spite spanning years, strenghtened by scolding or two, no doubt. Gently, Duane laid his hand on Sam's thigh, almost touching as he locked onto Sam's eyes again.

"Hey, remember? I was there. I saw what happened. I think I have a pretty good picture of the 'weird shit' you're talking about."

The hazel eyes faced his, uncertainty swimming in the depths.

"It's okay, Sam," he almost whispered, feeling the muscle twitch under his hold.

Sam blinked, released his grasp on the bottle, slid off the chair leaving it between them. He leaned on the bar, right hand rising to run over his face.

"I-I better go," he stammered, grabbing his bags, starting to stumble through the twilight and the throng inside the establishment.

"Sam, wait!" It would have been easy to catch up with the man, his gait's normal grace diminished by the alcohol he'd downed. Duane let him reach the door before going after him, though, so that when he did catch a hold of Sam's arm, they were outside, on the border of the bar's lights.  
Despite his state, Sam snatched his arm violently away.

"Just go, Duane. You really don't want to stick around me." Dark eyes, blazing with contempt barely hiding the guilt.

"So I should just let you walk away? In your state?"

Sam looked away, biting his lip, glanced back with bright eyes, pain etched deep in every pore of his being.

Gently, Duane laid his hands on the taller man's shoulders, gripped enough for the touch to register.

"Sam, it's okay," he said, looking straight into the hazel eyes. "Just...talk to me...let me help..."

A moment more, those soulful eyes on his, that strong body holding itself up. His fingers nudged, and Sam folded in on himself like a house of cards, long fingers covering his face. Duane wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders, revelling in the feel of that body so close to his, Sam's ragged breaths a delight.

"It's all gonna be alright, Sammy-boy..." he whispered, planting a kiss to the side of Sam's neck.

* * *

**Author's Note:**  
A rabid little bunny sunk its mad little teeth into my jugular and refused to let go until I wrote this down.  
I have a fatal fear of spoilers at this moment, so all of this is just perfectly innocent insanity.  
It would be highly appreciated if any comments people may feel inclined to leave were bereft of anything having to do with 2x10 and later episodes. Thank You. 

At the moment the bunny's desperately trying to tell me that there's more where this came from, but...  
What do you think?


	2. Venial

Samantha-dean, Starliteeyes17, wild wolf free17, ephiny63, Thank You all for the encouragement. And Thank You all who have read.

Betaed by the graceful **wild wolf free17**.  
Updated to voice a special Thank You to **Ash8** for leading me to the lovely **Dairwendan** over at LiveJournal, and her work on the Latin in the show.

_I'm a bit iffy with the rating, but...it'll remain T unless someone sets me straight.   
(Non-)Consensuality ahead.  
Bare male skin ahead.  
Hurt!Sam ahead.  
Enjoy._

* * *

**Vicissitudes:  
Venial**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Words stumbled out of him in time with his steps. He felt sick, tired, everything that had happened descending upon him, rushing out like water through a cracked dam, incoherent, swift, bearing destruction, gravid with havoc.

He remembered leaving (_so many things_), the closeness of someone..._familiar?_  
Kind touch, holding him up, leading him...but not Dean.

The same he felt now, leaning with him against a wall, hot mouth on his conceding his confession, swallowing his sins, absolving all his aberrations.

Thoughts tried to catch up with the train, clamber onto the tracks anew as he felt hands on his skin, rough and fervent, tugging his shirt, tracing his ribs. Senses stirred even as he realized he was suckling on the other's tongue with equal eagerness, the heady scent of want pleading him into distraction and delight.

_And, honestly...why not?_

He relaxed into the hungry hands, the hard grain of tiles against his back, human warmth embracing him. His eyes fluttered shut, moist mouth mapping the tender area below his ear, jaw, the handgun (_Beretta_) cold and clumsy against the small of his back.

Memories seeped, notions bubbled beyond the blanket of sensations, coaxing him from cognizance, luring him to lust.  
Desire danced over his nerves, whispered to him with the other's (_Duane?_) lips over his pulse, strong body against his own sort of weird, hot even through the clothing as an idea presented itself, his body obeying the whim, alcohol-addled or not.

He pulled the man's (_...and isn't that just wrong?_) head closer, slipped his other hand behind himself as he brought his lips near the ear.

"Christo," he breathed, fingers tensing around the grip of the gun. The muscles stilled against him for fraction of a heartbeat. He tried to whip out the Beretta, flee, but the beers he knew he really shouldn't have drunk made him too slow, too drowsy, too weak as the voice that had been nothing but smiles so far turned to sadism and his vision went too white, the blast of pain blacking out the world as his head connected with the all too solid tiles, purr poison in his ears.

"That's a real turn off, Sammy."

* * *

He wanted to curl up, be miserable and suffer the hangover in peace, hope like hell Dean wouldn't be inclined to check if his singing still sucked. 

Except that he'd left Dean. With a bang.

And he couldn't curl up.  
Cool air laid like a blanket over his chest, soft bedding under him, darkness greeted his sight.

No, not complete darkness.

He could see gentle halos of bright stars, flickering some feet from him.

_Candles_, his hammering head suggested, unease settling in, clearing slightly his bleary mind. Adrenaline dispelled more shadows as he tried to draw in his arms, rope biting down in retribution.

His head trying to kill him, his mouth tasting of things rather left unsaid, Sam bit his lip, tested his bonds as calmly as he could, assessing the situation. It was easier with his eyes closed, if only because he couldn't really remember the last time he'd felt as foul. What he did remember wasn't making him feel any better.

_Stop. _

_Concentrate. _

_Take a deep breath. Don't be sick._

Getting out would be a feat. The knots were beyond his reach, the ropes refused to give in, he had no tools. He was okay, discounting the nausea and the headache, the dull terror of missing details concerning how he'd come to be in the dark, spread-eagled on the bed, stripped out of his shirts.

He opened his eyes, tried to find out where he was. Tried to focus on the lights, shifting and bright enough to irritate. Three tapers that failed to reach the ceiling or the walls, painted out the rough texture of the floor, refused to be reflected. Biting his lip again, he turned his head carefully, throbbing localizing ever so briefly to a flash point at the back of his head.

That triggered a torrent of recollections, garbled and twisted, ignored as his eyes alighted upon the person standing beyond the bed. Single flame spilled on skin, caught blonde hair, glanced off gingham, brushed over toned torso. Belied keen eyes that met his.

"What's going on?" Sam barked, bile rising with the words.

Smile spread on the familiar face, gaze darker than he remembered, the light gently laid on a bedpost as the man sat down on the bed.

"Can't you remember, Sam?" Voice soft, sharp as steel, pale eyes cold.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, tried to think through the throbbing every move seemed to tease. He remembered a bar, beer that had bred a whole battalion, according to his state. Someone he thought he knew..._Duane? Duane Tanner?_ Clumsy, irrational make out...coal-black eyes, familiar cadence to the words he couldn't recall.

Warm hand landed on his leg, began to slowly caress upwards. He couldn't suppress the urge to flee, try and jerk away, his eyes snapping open. _No time to waste on feeling sorry._ He needed to get away, out of here as fast as possible. _Figure it all out, deal with it all later._

"I thought it was rather fun..."

Again, something stirred in the way the words strayed, smiling, distracted, from the man's lips, deliberate fingers brushing up along the length of denim, Sam struggling to stay still. Nails bit into palms, teeth into lip as Duane's fingers slipped, spread wide over his stomach, hungry lips dove in to warm the side of his neck.

"Let me go, Duane." Even to his own ears, Sam's voice sounded strained.

"Come on, now...no need to be such a killjoy, Sammy." Hot whisper against his skin, his eyes shut, his toes curling, teasing fingers brushing over his nipple, breath caught as the lips claimed his, invading tongue tasting of beer and blood. He strove to relax, submit, the muscles in his arms cording, straining against the bonds, his throat rebelling against the violation.

But Duane kept on it, sucking, biting, mapping every minute detail of Sam's mouth, swallowing his shock as the fingers found another target and squeezed, the body on the bed jolting at his touch, ragged breaths passing bruised lips, denial seeking to override desire for survival.

"Stop." Half-choked, still more a command than a plea, eyes ablaze. "Stop, Duane."

Chiaroscuro turned the delight in the expression into devil; the man locked his gaze with Sam's as he rubbed circles through the cloth.  
Blood betrayed him, the beats of his heart hammering the pain at the back of his head deeper. Lids slid shut anew, searching a sanctuary from the sensations, seeking a scripture in his memory. He swallowed to calm his rebelling body, concentrated on breathing, on the proper form, the right phrases.

Licking his lips, he begun.

"Regna terrae/ Cantate Deo/ Psallite Domino." Quietly he stumbled through the incantation, trusting the gut-feeling of being correct, remembering right. He had read the ritual once successfully, skimmed over it in preparation a multitude more, followed the blocks of his father's handwriting untold times after the night in the hospital, standing beside Dean's bedside, during the week at Bobby's.

"Sam." The voice was cold, the teasing touch had left his skin. He ignored it all, the Latin flowing off his lips, felt the mattress dip and shift around him. "Ecce/ Edit vocem suam/ Agnoscite..."

One of Dean's bands, or a whole bandful of drummers, had made his head their home. The weight settling over his waist, the warmth of another body, the breaths against his skin clenched his fists, made him wet his throat as he felt his way through the exorcism, eyes vehemently closed to the reality.

"If I wanted to fuck a priest, I'd have found one," the voice again, callous, said just before hellfire swallowed his nipple, words strung out to a scream, his body trying to escape the burn as his eyes flew open, a scatter of scorching spots registering mere breath before a strong hand caught his jaw, hostile lips pressed against his mouth, teeth caught his tongue and bit _hard_. He tasted blood, wanted to gag, wanted to flee more than ever before as the new instances of pain joined the thrum of earlier hurts.

Duane let go of his head, let it fall onto the bed as he reached, lit the candle in his hand anew. Sam swallowed, tried to regain the control of his breaths, heart pumping the pain everywhere, mind clouded worse than after he'd woken up.

"No more crap, okay?" the man still on him said, tickling the chords of recollection anew. His tongue hurt, but he (_she?_) had given just a warning. He could still move it, use it, though his mouth just filled with blood, his mind with suffering.

Duane leaned over him, face hovering mere inches above Sam's turned cheek, breath brushing along his jaw. The flame dancing at the top of the candle drew his eyes. Anything to concentrate on besides his predicament.  
Lips danced along his jugular, sent a tremble through his body. He could feel the smile against his skin.

He closed his eyes again, returned his mind to the task he'd started. The ritual...not really that long, but long enough. Maybe. And he was screwed anyway, alone. Not like anyone who might care knew where he was. _So why not give up, give in, keep possibly some semblance of life even if everything else is lost?_

"I expect to get an answer, Sam."

_After all, isn't that what Dad did?  
Fucked around with a demon?_

Path blazed down his chest, rough cry the farthest he could bolt the pain, body pinned to the bed under Duane.

"What's the matter, Sam? Cat got your tongue?"

The breath he drew in trembled in tandem with his body.

"Go...to hell."

White teeth flashed in the flame's glow, smirk so unlike Dean's closer to insane in the candle-dusk.

"Baby, I'm already there."

He didn't care how, didn't really have the energy to think, so he just closed his eyes. The hands, the touches creeping down his sides, rolling over his ribs, those he could ignore. _It's nothing_, he whispered to himself, survival superseding sensations, sex in his books.

The words waited in his memory, promised pardon. But he'd screwed up, faltered and failed, just like back in River Grove. Passing away might, considering, be the best option. After all, there had to be worse ways to leave the world.

_And getting slain by a demon? Par for the course._

Another breath, the mouth trailing down the sternum now, hands somewhere further south.

"Majestas ejus, et-"

Pain blossomed into a supernova, muscles tightening to curl up around it, his throat raw. Teeth bit into his flesh, turning the red thread of his thoughts too crimson, tasting too much of iron. For a moment, Sam didn't know why he tried to hold onto the gibberish he couldn't be certain was the right Latin, the right order, the right phrases anymore.

There was a voice, scolding, chiding, speaking in a language he couldn't be sure he had ever understood.

He swallowed, tongue too clumsy to reach the right intonation, words broken, flares blazing along his skin, catching his breath, tempting him to tumble down the rabbit's hole. There wasn't (_couldn't be_) a hand on his crotch, no wanton mouth or tongue trembling along his bones, no molten wax lazily drifting over nerves. His body couldn't be answering to such exercises, the unadulterated ardour in the lips lingering above his heart.

The sound escaping his body as his headache intensified with each beat of his excited heart might have easily been a sob, the ministrations slowly working their magic on his wits.

The sharp, harsh staccato of shots forced his eyes open, body twisting in its bonds.

* * *

**Author's Note: **  
The title _is_ supposed to 'Venial', not 'Venal'. Both would have, methinks, fit in, but irony tipped the scales in favour of 'Venial'. ;)  
The exorcism was my blind shot in the dark. Now it's supposed to be right (shortest exorcism in the show so far, from 1x04), and I'm sworn to gratitude to **Ash8** and **Dairwendan** over at LiveJournal. 


	3. Vestiges

**Ash8** will have my gratitude, **Ster1** and **samantha-dean** a medal for encouragement, and **Thru Terry Eyes** some of my promiscuous infatuation with writers (because your skill writing broken!Dean is something I wish I had).

**Wild wolf free17** gallantly betaed this beast, too. And suffered the first version. Trust me, this (scars and all) is better.

_So, yeah...  
Those Winchesters are just wonderful when hurt, aren't they?  
Off to see if hell has a circle for whimbound writers, now.  
Spoilerific for 2x10._

* * *

**Vicissitudes:  
Vestiges**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Almost half a year, and he had trouble seeing Sam on the bed instead of John.

_Assess the damage, fix what you can.  
Wait, watch._

And that was, as always, the worst part.  
He hadn't realized just how bad it was until there was no one to share the wait with. Or how bad it could be when there was no way to tell whether or not he had failed the promise to a dead man.

His thoughts trailed back to the days before, the earlier hours of the night as he sat in the chair, let the band of beads flow to the rhythm of now calm respiration between his fingers time and again, provide a constant in his world of worry.

The words that twisted Sam's face, darkened his eyes with contempt.

The tenuous agreement that blew up on his face after a couple of careless comments.

Waking up with a throbbing head to find Sam gone.

Lacking any trace beyond a gut feeling.

Calls returned with nothing but "Better this way," until the mobile had just rung away, beeped into voice mail.

The search, the bartender's comments, the trail (_half guts, half luck_), the cry, the whole damn thing reeking of something familiar.

The look in Sam's eyes as he'd burst in, guns a-blazing like some stupid macho hero. _And just for a moment, they were too dead._  
The look in Sam's eyes just before 'Duane' had jumped up.  
The look in Sam's eyes, unblinking, as he'd witnessed the demon leaving the boy's body, shatter and disappear.

All of those haunted him, if only because they were not looks he'd seen in Sam's eyes. Rarely, if ever.

He didn't like the way the last look still made him feel, the way something shifted in the depths of the hazel eyes.

He wasn't sure he'd welcome any of them even if it meant Sam would open his eyes now.

The tall man lay unresponsive, alive, on the bed, pale even in the early rays peeking through the threadbare curtains. Hesitantly, Dean reached, laid his hand for a moment on the forehead, brushing aside the bangs.  
When all of it had passed, the hellspawn expelled and Duane dead, Sam lay sprawled on the floor, breath and beat matching each others' erratic pace. Skin clammy, blood on his lips, staining his cheek, rope burns around his wrists, cracking wax on his chest over pale burns. Smelling of pain and fear and alcohol, and everything else just took a backseat. There were too many alarms, too many things potentially wrong, too much he just didn't plain understand.

But he'd done what he could, prayers to anonymous deities flitting around his skull like trapped flies. Still, his brother refused to surface, limbs lax.

_What happened after Sam left? _

_Does it matter?_

The only part that Dean cared about was that he thought he'd gotten there in time. Sam had been alive, recognition overriding pain-clad panic in his eyes, well enough to tear his arms free halfway through the knots, attack the bindings around his ankles without a word. Stumbled off the bed, leaned heavily against it, curled up, Dean's own hesitation, words clogging his throat in their hurry to get all out, the impulses from his brains to his muscles cancelling each other out.

He should have been smarter than to think a single human would manage to catch Sam. Drunk as a skunk-Sam, but still...after that incident in Minnesota, he should have known better. Both of them.   
Especially considering what they knew now. Why John had wanted to keep them from the fight. Why he had gone underground just before Sam's dreams burnt.

_Past is past._

The old phrase flickered among the single-minded thoughts, mocking him for failing to live up to that tenet.  
He evicted its accusations, concentrated on the easy rise and fall of Sam's mottled chest, the fine line between living warmth and fever, any sign betraying the return of awareness.

Another phrase, as devious and damaging as the first, slithered into his thoughts, whispering _What if_...  
...he'd shot Duane back in River Grove?  
...he'd kept his mouth shut?  
...he'd found Sam earlier?  
...he'd been too late?

The memories ghosted through his head, cunning bastards like all his past failures.  
The flashback horror of being back in that damn cabin, body pressed by alien will against worn wood instead of cold concrete.  
The way Duane's hands had roamed Sam's unconscious body, claiming, taking. Promising more with each sweep, each brush, each syllable. _What if... _

_"You touch him again, you're dead." _

_"I thought I'd be dead anyway...The least I can do is to ascertain I'll die guilty."_

The memory-sensation of his heart drowning in blood, world swallowed by pain trying to lure him away, leave Sam shieldless.  
The cold shower of recollections that had come _after_, sobered him enough to challenge, the phantoms banished with the reality of the situation.

And the reality had been that Sam, eyes lacking recognition or awareness, had somehow managed to tear the demon out of the boy.

Dean bowed his head.  
He was tired of always being too pressed for time, lacking enough cards to play the game, not knowing the name of the game. Or if it even was a card game to begin with. He was tired of being forced to act on an impulse, improvisation after improvisation, living constantly on the edge, in the shadows, never really seeing the things that held the blade, cast the shapes.

John Winchester's been dead for a while, and he took all his secrets with him to the skies.  
Sam Winchester's body still lived, but Dean wasn't sure whether his brother still inhabited it or not.   
Dean Winchester, trapped, was just waiting for the bell to toll.

So he let the litany he has never really professed dribble through his thoughts as another decade travelled under his thumb, the Holy water on a table near him, next to the guns, one loaded with silver, one with consecrated rounds, and their father's journal. He didn't know what he'd do if Sam woke up with nothing left.

If Sam didn't wake up...  
Well, Dean was willing to bet he'd end up in the seventh circle anyway. The only difference would be which ring.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
Just so we're on the same page here: This malarkey is not an educated guess on any part of the story (except for Dean's state). This isn't even logical. This is nothing but feeding the angstbunny in hopes that its brethren won't desert me. I don't agree with nor condone what's happened in this so far. Damn you, Bunny!  
...had enough of a palpitation with the Velvet Inn Motel scene...;) 

I have a question for all those who have read this far...  
Should I continue?


	4. Vacillation

**Samantha-dean**, **Thru Terry Eyes**, **Starliteyes17**, **ephiny63** and **everyone else** who has decided to see where this little rabbit hole leads... Thank You!

Like before, betaed by the ever-delightful **wild wolf free17**. Everyone should give her cookies.

_Angst? What angst? Do you mean the cross with the loopy bit on top?  
No, sirree, never seen one. Honestly!  
:D _

* * *

**Vicissitudes:  
Vacillation**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

_Yellow eyes flash at him from amidst the crowd they pass, incoherency bleeding out of the Impala's stereo, strumming words as he turns to follow the man with an insane grin plastered on his face._

"But the war's still going on, dear, and there's no end that I know  
And I can't say if we're ever...  
I can't say if we're ever gonna be free"

_But the eyes are gone, and he turns to Dean, except that it's Dad who's driving the Impala. Dad who glances at him, scorn scarring the smile, dark eyes boring into him, pinning him into place with force he hasn't known since... _

_There's wood under his fingers, splinters threatening to skin him alive even as Dad tears his eldest apart._ (No, not Dad. Demon.)

_"Keep telling yourself that, Sammy, one day it might even be true." _

_The voice is like gravel, Dad _(Demon) _leaning closer, hot breath against the side of his face._ (This isn't happening.)

_He can't deny the touches covering his body. There's too many hands, too much fire, scorching along his body, burning through his skin, eating at the festering wounds. _

_He bats at the flames, but his body won't move, and there's nothing but the hands that won't leave his skin, lips without a body whispering along his nerves in a way no one has, not since Jess...face on fire, pale eyes blistering with blame above him. _

_This_, he knew. _This is familiar._  
It gouged his heart out with grief, but the nightmares of Jessica he knew how to deal with. All he needed to do was _wake up_.

The dreams spat him out, light tearing through his cornea, body seeking solace from the memory-pain, longing to curl up, throat dry, muscles aching. The dull throb ruled his whole body, cottoned his mouth with the stale residue of crimson and malt, something sweet.

Bedding beneath him, body frozen and the shock searing in a shower of sensations. He twisted, turned, tried to dodge further torture, his body rebelling against every move, headache spiking, stomach senseless.

No longer bound, crippled. But just as helpless in his weakness and disorientation.

Warm hands grabbed him, pulled him, harsh, uncompromising, instincts rearing up to fight and flee. Cacophony of commands, demands, unintelligible save for the timbre and tone, the hold leaving the moment he felt something hard against his back, sheets strangling him from the waist down.

He blinked hard, blind from brightness, hand raised to shelter.

"Sam?"

One word flew over the clamorous noises.

A hand grabbed his, curled his fingers around something cool.

"Drink."

Low, rough, calm before a storm.  
Still familiar.

Relief fell through the daze in his head like rain, burying a flock of fears.

_Dean._

Closing his eyes, Sam relaxed against the headboard, raised the glass to his lips, took a tentative sip. Water flowed easily down his throat, smoothed over the soreness, burned on his tongue, in his belly with its coldness. It washed away some of the foulness in his mouth, helped clear the heavy clouds in his head. Blinking brought the world back into focus slowly, ears filtered the sounds gradually into coherency. Car passed outside, sunlight pushed through the curtains.

Dark eyes watched him, the lines of Dean's face hard, purple starflower spread over the left side of his face, body tense as he sat in a chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, lips rigid.   
Sam swallowed, uneasiness arising to pace along with pain. He'd rarely been on the receiving end of the vibe Dean was giving off now: dangerous, threatening, angry.

_...looks as bad as it feels?  
Or..._

The recollections rode happily forward making him feel worse. He tried to ignore them, to prop himself up better, queasiness stirring with even the slightest moves.  
Dean's hands tightened their hold, eyes intent.

His feelings turned to winter as he placed the look in the green eyes, his head complaining of thinking. It was a familiar look, death in its wake.

The same look Sam had espied in so many occasions, hardly ever directed at him.

Dead eyes. Halfway in Hell.

He shivered against his will, pulling his legs up, resting his arms on his knees, testing his tongue tentatively. It still felt swollen, but not as bad as it could have been, sugar succeeding the stains of blood and alcohol.  
Dean's fingers moved momentarily, something sighing between them.

_Rosary?_

"How're you feelin'?"

The words caught him off guard, smooth and easy, dark and deadly.

"I'll live."

Dean nodded curtly at the half-whispered words.

"You remember any of it?"

His mouth felt dry. Sure he could. The blow-out. Storming off, angry as hell and feeling fouler the further he got. Some bar. Black eyes, _wanting_, Duane's mouth on his own. The ropes. The bed. The candles. Number of nightmares, half-real, half-lies.  
He bit his lip. Between the beers he remembered and getting knocked out, it felt insane to try and guess what set fact apart from fiction.

Still, leaning his head to his hand, he opened his mouth, voice hoarse, tongue stumbling over phonetics.

"I remember...Thinking drinking was a good idea. Duane Tanner. You barging in. Everything beyond that...I mean, I'm pretty sure the pink elephants weren't really there."

There wasn't laughter, no smart-ass comments, no jovially swept up lips. Dean remained hard and cold, scary like never before, tension pervading the air between them.

"Dean, please...tell me. What happened?"

Dean stared at him for a moment more, stock-still save for the minute murmur of the beads in his hand.

"You really don't remember, do you?" Softly, half to himself, expression losing the sharpest edge, pose slackening if just a smidgen.

"I don't even know how we got out," Sam answered quietly. "What happened, Dean? Where's Duane, or Meg, or...?"

He shook his head slightly, trailing off.

Sighing, the elder Winchester straightened, laid the dark rosary on the table beside two guns, the thick leather-bound journal, refusing to meet Sam's eyes. A moment's thoughtfulness, easy hand resting on the beads.  
A glance at him from under brows.

"It can wait 'til you feel better. There's a shower if you think you're up for it. Some food. Water."

Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe Dean _was_ just worried.  
Maybe cows had figured how to fly.

Sam ran a tentative hand through his hair. His last shower had been..._what? Week ago? Sure feels like it._

He aimed for a chuckle, but that must have come out wrong, because Dean's fingers twitched, tenseness back in full force.  
Sam sighed, laid the now-empty glass on the nightstand.

"Yeah, shower sounds good. About as good as a bottleful of aspirin and lifelong sobriety..."

Mirthless smile touched Dean's lips at that, far cry from the sun-shaming smirk, and he rose as the younger man sought his way out of the sheets.

"Need help?"

"A shower is probably something I'm old enough to tackle on my own, thanks," Sam answered, rising warily, expecting the vertigo. A deep breath, and he braved his way to the bathroom, concentrated enough on keeping the world still that he missed the way Dean's hand caressed the pearly grip on the table, jaw taut, eyes hard as he followed the disheveled form until the door cut the connection.

* * *

He leaned against the door, eyes closed to make believe the world wasn't tilting and twisting around him, already regretting the decision. But turning back would mean walking back to the bed, grime and all, suffer either an elder-brother-Dean who wouldn't stop fussing or hurt-like-hell-Dean who wouldn't tell him what was wrong. 

_As if that was needed..._

Gingerly, he stripped out of his jeans and undies, avoided the mirror. He didn't want to see the marks; feeling them, knowing they were there, dotting his torso was enough.

He bit his lip against the dizziness, swallowed back the sickness as he stepped under the shower. The water turned from cool to warm, coughing out as he leaned on his arms against the wall, let the drizzle fall on his back, the hum lull his thoughts.

He would never drink again. But the gruff voice still shivered in the shadows of his skull, murmuring madness and mayhem.  
There had to be better ways to deal with that.

Cautiously he reached, touched the scabbed over bump at the back of his head. He hissed at the memory as much as at the soreness, willing himself to just let it go. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. He was safe, and Duane, Meg, whatever...  
Hell, he didn't know.

He couldn't be certain.

He remembered reciting an exorcism out of memory.  
The great success it had been before all he could think about became pain.

He raised his face to the downpour, failing to stand still as the warm water travelled over his chest, stomach, kissed hotly the burns on his skin.

_"If I wanted to fuck a priest, I'd have found one."_

Gasping, knees hitting the wet tiles, the shock jolting him back to his senses, to the present, Sam braced himself against the wall, swallowing away the unease. He still didn't understand how any of it was possible.

_The Demon's probably laughing its ass off at how easy it was to trap John-fucking-Winchester's son._

His own fault, really.  
But he'd been so angry. He shouldn't have, he'd known it was wrong and stupid above all else, but he hadn't been able to stop it. Hadn't really even _wanted_ to stop it for a moment, not with what Dean had said. And the suggestions of the voice had merely grown after he'd...left. Dean.  
Again.

_And why? Because Dad decided to try and fuck us up one last time?_

But Dean believed those words.

Tentatively he got up to his feet, wiped a hand over his face, disregarded the reminders of his little escapade.

_That what this is about?  
That's why he's so on edge?_

Try as he might, he couldn't remember.  
Duane on top of him, hands and teeth and candles, Dean, face terrible, the shock shattering any sense of time, freed...bottomless eyes, the Abyss in all its glory in front of him. All that, not really a problem. Twisted, sick, wrong, but too easy to recall. Dean pinned to the wall in cruel imitation of the cabin.  
But nothing but dreams and bad feelings after that.

If 'Duane' had kept up his act with Dean, there was no way to tell what had been said or done.  
Sam suspected he'd drawn the longest straw by blacking out.

Because demons lied. And the more they lied, the more Dean believed them.

Movements swift, the slight steam inflaming his already questionable balance, Sam turned the shower off, dried himself brusquely in his hurry to get out, try and set things straight between the remaining Winchesters.  
The key to that, he felt, laid somewhere in the time he'd spent stumbling towards the Gates of Horn and Ivory.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
The lyrics in Sam's dream are a (very small) part of Blue Oyster Cult's song "Veteran of the Psychic Wars" (Album: Fire Of Unknown Origin). Which, you know, is my own personal favourite for Dean's Theme Song during the second season. I highly recommend finding and listening it. Or just locating the lyrics and reading them. ;)  
Incidentally, I'm irrationally pleased that I got Sam into a shower...  
The Bunny's letting me use all sorts of nice images in this tale that I haven't been able to implement in any other storylet!  
:D 


	5. Verge

**Ronissoomine**, it's so nice to know you enjoy this tale!   
Even more so if there's event a hint of plausibility.  
Thank You, and **everyone else** who reads, as well as **ephiny63**, **Ash8**, **Ster1**, **wild wolf free 17** and **samantha-dean** for leaving comments.  
As it is, I don't really know where this is going. The Bunny and the Boys have complete command.

**Wild wolf free17** remains my ever-praiseworthy, fast betaer.

_Yeah, this overlaps a little with the last chapter.  
Sorry.  
But...Enjoy. :)_

* * *

**Vicissitudes:  
Verge**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Ears picked up the moment the door denied him the sight, internal clock ticking off seconds. Sam had been, had seemed too pale, too worn for comfort. Too damn unstable as he staggered into the bathroom.  
Dean's fingertips brushed the familiar pearly sheen before clenching into a fist, his eyes straying to the fine white crystals sown amidst the red fibers of the carpet.

_So far nothing._

Every facet of his heart was telling him to go, take care of his brother, see that he didn't pass out, hurt himself more.

_And I'll be lucky to wake up with just a bruise the next time..._

As he heard the shower turn on, he ran a hand through his hair, over his face, letting out a breath.

For all intents and purposes, Sam had seemed..._Sam_.   
Freaked, hung over, vulnerable...but Sam. Recognition in his eyes, questions in every gaze.

Granted, he hadn't really put much weight on the fact that washing Sam's skin with Holy water had done nothing. Not now when they knew there were demons who couldn't care less about the stuff. Still, he'd expected some kind of a reaction when Sam had drunk some.

_But if that failed, what more would any amount of any kind of salt, symbols or silver do? What prayer or exorcism not already used would help?_

Keenly he examined the white curves of the circle on the floor.

Heck, he didn't even know _what_ to expect.

_Damn it, Dad, why couldn't you be more specific? "Save Sam" - how? From what? Christmas lights and Wal-Mart's?_

The ring around the bed remained unbroken. Sam hadn't flinched crossing it, much less hesitated. Hadn't really appeared to even notice the safety measure.

_You could have at least told me about some stupid sign..._

For all Dean knew, it might be nothing demonic. It might be nothing that he could conjure forth until it was way too late.

_...as if weird-ass abilities and immunity to the Demon Flu weren't enough..._

He sighed, turned to the small fridge in the room, rummaged around for various food items. He wasn't particularly drawn to the idea of eating, and if past was anything to go by, Sam wouldn't be in a mood for anything solid either, but... Food gave him something to do with his hands, and the taller man would drop if he didn't have a bite or two. Heavens knew when he had last eaten, anyway.

The thrum of the shower was soothing in its constancy, the tiny changes in the cadence as Sam shifted a quiet reassurance.

He'd known his brother for all Sam's life. Dean doubted if anyone could read him better. Even after the four years apart.  
Even if no one else could spot the lie, Dean had trusted himself to know the difference. And there had been nothing of the sort in Sam's seeming. Not when he'd claimed to have no idea how they came to be in a nameless motel God-knew-where.

The part before Dean had stepped on to the stage, though...

_What happened, Sam? Did he hurt you more than I can fix?_

His fists clenched at the thought.

_And what the hell has Meg to do with this? Duane fucked you delirious?  
That's why you went Dark Phoenix on us?_

There were a couple more tests he could run.  
If not for the questions and doubts in his head, all clamouring for attention, trying to force his hand into one action or the other, the ghost of their father hovering at the back of it all, softly-spoken words like a scream.

The sharp, wet crack of a body hitting tiles shocked him out of his brooding into action. The shower stayed on, soft gasp seeping out to his ears, his hand a breath above the knob, the other against the thin wood. The part of him that still had hard time occasionally seeing Sam the man instead of Samuel the baby or Sammy the boy just wanted to call out to him, make sure he was fine. The part of him that couldn't rid the image of the hazel eyes, unblinking, unfamiliar, urged him to arm himself, prepare for whatever.

With a couple of determined strides, swallowing back his hesitation, a thousand banshees blaming him already, Dean reached the table, the duffel on a chair. The tools of their trade laid in controlled chaos in its depths, blades tucked neatly in their sheats, bottles of Holy water glinting back at him, lighter fluid and matches as far from each other as possible, the carved figure nailed to a cross, the half-used canister of salt taking up the most room.

His hand touched the dark wood when he heard the torrent in the bathroom die.  
His eyes lingered on the crucifix as the door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the way Sam leaned for a moment on the doorframe. The way the pale body reluctantly left that support, half-stumbled onto a bed. He shifted slightly, watched as Sam drew his backpack closer, tugged out clothes with underlined determination, face set in rigid lines, eyes too bright.

_Far from well._

Weighing the symbol in his hand, Sam pulling on a t-shirt, Dean reconsidered. Not like either of them needed his fears and doubts to deal with on top of everything else.

_But..._

"Sam?" he called, eyes on the thing in his hands as sweatpants swallowed Sam's long legs. "Here."

Honed reflexes saved the drained man from another hurt, long fingers deftly catching the wood and metal figure, something (_surprise?_) flashing in the hazel eyes before they were cast down, the crucifix subjected to study.

Dean, leaning on the table, hands close enough to the guns, held his breath for the moment before Sam raised his shadowed, wary eyes.   
But he didn't even wince, show any other sign of being troubled in the least.  
For a beat, they looked at each other. Then Sam laid the detailed cross on the bed behind him, movements slow and deliberate, head bowed as his hands clasped in front of him, bruises like shackles, moist hair unruly.

"What happened, Dean?" Resigned, quiet, Sam suddenly seeming much smaller than his almost six and a half feet frame could suggest. Tired eyes rose to meet Dean's, desperation shuffling in the shadows.

_No, dear God. No._

"I'm not doing this. Not before you've eaten something."

_You're not better. Not yet._

"It'll just come back up." Soft voice, sorry eyes holding onto his own, sad, weary smile slipping on and off Sam's lips. "Have you recited God's seven names? Burned bay leaves and angelica? Cut me with silver?"

He ignored the hushed hunter's suggestions, facing the gaze.

"I'm not letting you down any pills into an empty belly."

With an unhappy bark of laughter, Sam shook his bowed head carefully.

"Feels like there's too much already..."

The anger flared, sharp and sweet and stark on his tongue, the words slipping out before he could bite them back.

"Booze and a sugar cube not gonna cut it. And that's all you've had over the last day or two!"

Intent eyes snapped up at that, questions pooling in the depths, wariness tightening muscles to flee or fight.

"Sugar?"

_Sam, blood too dark on too ashen skin, breaths and beats too rapid, too far from regular..._

Dean exhaled as he turned around, hand running through his hair, the other leaning on the table. When he spoke again, his voice was low, rough, memories of John, the exercises and lessons flitting through his mind again, intermittent with _Sam_.

"You were going into shock. I just...it was the only thing I could do anything about."

_Ensure breathing.  
Stop bleeding.  
Keep warm._

"Why'd I go into shock?" Quiet, gently prodding, careful.

_Duane, thumbs hooked at the waist of Sam's jeans, devouring unresponsive Sam's lips, skin, like he was a free meal..._

Taking a deep breath, stuffing the nightmares back into their box, Dean turned back, locked his eyes with Sam's. Hated his voice when he couldn't manage to get it as even and self-assured as he wanted.

_"...kill him, Dean."_

"I'm not doing this. Not now. We'll talk when a breeze won't knock you over."

Sam looked at him, eyes pleading, challenging, unblinking. For one crazy, panicked second, Dean's brains froze, his instincts urging him to _do_ something, every piece of him wanting to leave, take Sam and _go_.

_Duane, soul and devilsmoke torn out of him, shredded, dead long before he hits the floor._

Splinter of time, the terror their father planted in his heart blooming fresh and foul, Dean realized what he should've figured out so very, very long time ago.

_It doesn't matter.  
Whatever Sam is, whatever anything's planning for Sam, he's still_ Sam_. Nothing matters beyond that._

The hurt eyes were averted, the spell broken, the tightness to the shoulders, the way Sam cradled his head in his hands unmistakable.

He'd acted like an ass long enough.

Biting his lip, Dean paced into the kitchenette again.  
Worn eyes met his as he crouched before Sam, a glass of juice in his hand. Without a word, Sam accepted it, Dean rose, picked up the crucifix, tossed it onto the other bed.

"Sleep it off, Sammy," he said softly, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Dean, Meg..." Sam's voice was hesitant, his brow furrowed. "I mean, Duane. He-"

"Taken care of. Trust me." The hazel eyes looked up at him, dull with ache. "Drink that, try to rest. I promise, we'll talk when you can keep something solid down."

Unhappiness darkened his brother's features, gaze drifting.  
Dean dropped down to a crouch again, locking looks.

"Sam, I promise."

Despondency met his honesty, surrendering to acceptance.  
Smile brushed across his features as he got up to his feet, patted Sam's shoulder gently.

Silence filled the room, the suspense draining out. Sam emptied the glass, handed it to Dean before laying back, hand over his eyes. Dean busied himself with cleaning up the room until the rhythm of Sam's breaths changed, soft with sleep.

Careful not to wake him, Dean drew up the covers, sat down on the other bed, bowed his head.

He didn't want to think about tonight, tomorrow even less.  
Hadn't for a while, really.

Thinking about the last few days wasn't a much better idea.

_You were right about one thing, though, Dad...  
Sam's safe.   
And that's all that matters._

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
Damn that Dean and his stubborn streak!   
But, yeah...next (and last?) chapter will be up before the end of the month, all things willing...  
Though I _was_ considering ending it with this, but then Sam spoke up. :) 


	6. Views

**Ephiny63**, **Ash8**, **Ster1**...Thank You.  
**Everyone** who reads...Thank you.  
Hopefully you all will continue to enjoy this little ditty.

**Wild wolf free17**'s the lovely lass I remain indebted to.

_The last chapter...   
Double POV ahead  
Some bare male skin ahead  
Some Angst ahead  
OoCness combined with grade school writing ahead_

* * *

**Vicissitudes:  
Views**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

There was weariness in his bones, aches echoed in every part of his body. It would have been so very easy to slip back into the warm, dreamless darkness he'd barely left if not for incessant pressure on his bladder.

Sam opened his eyes lazily, let them adjust to the twilight shades of the city bleeding into the room.  
Reluctantly he shrugged off the covers, rose up to sit on the bed, the change not something his whole body agreed on. Biting back a groan, he leaned on his hands for a moment.

_Yeah, definitely never drinking again..._

His head letting him live, he got up to his feet. Dean was out cold on the bed a few feet away, fully clothed, oddly twisted, as if he'd nodded off in mid-thought. Breaths shifted, sleep-easy, one arm off the bed.

Neon lights from the outside spilled in through the curtains, slicing the night up. The mobile on the nighttable suggested the midnight was still quarters away.

As quietly as he could, trying to keep the fabric from scratching the burns, Sam padded into the bathroom, drew the door closed behind him before turning on the lights.

Pale man flashed on the silvern surface of the mirror and was gone.

Sam relieved himself, the brands around his wrists glaring up at him, not allowing the night before to be a dream.  
Letting his sweatpants hang low on his hips, off the lowest burns, he washed his hands, his face, sank down onto the edge of the tub, raised his wrists to get a better look.

They looked bad in their variegated shades, the texture of the rope imprinted into his flesh, fiber bites nearly black against the blues. Nothing bad enough to need dressings, but sore to touch, far worse to associate. Something he sure as hell would keep covered up until no trace remained.

The bruising around his ankles was slightly lesser, the rope burns maroon.

Everything downstairs felt okay, despite the knee, the memory that made him still resist the urge to curl up in pain.

Throbbing around his waist, stretch on his chest made his breath hitch as he straightened. He hesitated, fingering the hem of his t-shirt. He'd avoided the sight of the marks, the lonely wave of a taper scorching his cornea every time he closed his eyes.

_Just get it over with._

Collection of curses slipped through his mind as his fingers curled, drew the worn cotton off over his head.

Smooth-edged splotches scattered over his abdomen were pale red, the ones at his waist angrier, rubbed raw by the sweatpants. He hadn't thought there would be so many. More worrisome by far, though, was the fact that he couldn't remember receiving the small scratches running down his ribs, the hickey next to his navel. Granted, his memory was shoddy if only thanks to all the alcohol, but still...

_All these during the exorcism...?_

His gaze slid over the line following his sternum, the dark crown around his right nipple, his fingers hovering above the damage. Dean had probably done what he could, but there was only so much one _could_ do about burns.  
_First degree_, his mind murmured, _second_, his fingertips brushing over small blisters where the flame must have touched the skin.

He stepped to the mirror, turned his head to see a couple more love bites faintly flowering there. His face looked haggard, his hair a mess, and though his head still complained, his tongue felt a bit off, he thought he looked worse than he really was. Every mark on him was superficial; a couple of days spent resting and all of them would be gone. With the way their life was going, he'd be sporting new ones before these faded into memory anyway.

All things considered, he'd gotten away easy.  
Something he remembered he wouldn't have believed then, tied to that bed. Dean had saved him from a lot of things he preferred not to think about.

_...even after everything._

Not that he wasn't grateful.  
He'd acted like a spoiler little brat, taking off in semi-righteous anger, gotten himself in trouble. By all logic, he should have fished himself out of it by himself.

The answer to how Dean had found them, though, had to wait with all the others.

Absentmindedly Sam brushed his teeth, grabbed his shirt off the floor, turned off the lights, sneaked out to the foot of his bed, his bags. Going by feel, he pulled out a shirt with sleeves down to his knuckles, tried to don it without touching his spotted chest.

Dean was still asleep, hands under his pillow.

Running a hand through his hair, Sam walked to the kitchenette, downed several mouthfuls of water before the bedsprings warned him.

Dean had turned, eyes wide, frozen upon the other bed, body tense.

Sam bit his lip, unable to quieten his conscience.

"Don't know if it matters or not, but..." His voice sounded still rough even to his own ears. Dark eyes snapped upon him, relief chasing terror in the depths. "You promise not to pick up Dad's more endearing qualities, I promise not to go off on my own."

It was enough for the guilt to caress his heart, memories bitter with reproach.

Every time he left, the blade cut too close to home.

He cleared his throat, stopped the train before his thoughts reached Stanford and the scars Dean didn't talk about.

"I mean...I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I clocked you. I'm sorry I got so angry. But most of all I'm sorry it took you _months_ to tell me."

Dean had clambered up, squinted eyes locking on him.

"Sam...can I wake up before you start with the verbal onslaught?"

The wariness from before and contempt, both of which Sam had more than half-expected, were absent, weariness blurrying the voice.

"Hey, this morning you were the one anxious to hear all about my little night out. And you promised."

"What, you're seven now?" Wakefulness eased in, Dean stretching, yawning. Then sharp gaze found Sam's again, eyed the glass in his hand. "And next you'll try and tell me you've wolfed down something more than liquid and it isn't crawling back up?"

He shrugged in answer, leaning on a counter. Food wasn't anything he felt really drawn to yet, even though his stomach felt emptier than it had in a while.

"So what will it take to wake you up and tell me why you thought breaking out the whole arsenal was a good idea? The salt? The crucifix? God knows what else?"

Dean was quiet for a moment, sizing him up before speaking again.

"I'll take a shower, there're some sandwiches in the fridge, and if you don't pull Batman on me again, I'll tell you all I know about your lack of taste in partners."

Sam rolled his eyes at that, laying the glass into the sink.

"Well, considering I'm with _you_ most of the time..."

A bunched, tossed shirt was the only answer he got as Dean vanished into the bathroom.

Feeling the grin creeping to his lips, Sam flung the ball onto Dean's bed. The hum of the shower joined soon enough the noises from the outside as he eyed a sandwich critically.  
Dean was a stubborn jerk, and he'd clam up and pretend nothing had ever happened until Sam acquiesced to his conditions. The way things were, it would probably be easier that way.

He nibbled at a piece, walking to the table ruled by a duffel bag. Beside it lay the Beretta, neon caressing the metal, mother of pearl.

Something cold clenched inside him as he touched the gun.

_Just where it laid before._

It was loaded, the safety turned on, but the memory, the rosary, the salt...

_Fuck._

**-:-**

The water had awakened him, brought his mind up to speed again. Dean stepped out of the bathroom, combing back his still moist hair with fingers. Sam stood beside the table, head bowed, eyes upon something in his hands.  
Nothing betrayed acknowledgement as Dean froze.

_No.  
It's okay...it's okay..._

"You were really going to do it." Quiet, indiscernible, gaze on the gun.

_I could not._

The tenseness slipped around him like a favourite jacket.

"Sam..."

For a moment, Sam didn't move, long fingers caressing, curling around the weapon.

"You thought you'd failed?" Still quiet, still refusing to look up. "That I really went off the deep end?"

_"John-boy thought he could save his precious little baby boy if he just kept Sammy away from 'bad influences'..."_

Almost carelessly Sam tossed the firearm into the bag.

_"...you think he meant us?"_

"So what did I do?" Challenging, the hazel dark in the dimness, Sam looked at him. Plea hid behind fear, restless fingers finding the sandwich, beginning to break small pieces off it as he sat down on a chair, back ramrod straight.

Dean shrugged, sat down on the bed, eyes lingering on the other man after he turned on the bedside lamp.  
He couldn't come up with any excuse to avoid it anymore. The best way seemed to be quick about, get it over with, move on as fast as possible.

_"Think baby brother'll wake up for the show?"_

"All I know is that...after I grabbed your stuff while you freed yourself, Duane made us meet nice Mr Wall, you blacked out, Duane got up and continued like nothing had happened, filling me in on all the 'fun' I'd missed."

Sam's fingers stopped, curled into a fist.

_"Didn't know li'l Sammy had a thing for his own kind, did'ya, Dean?"_

Dean turned his eyes away, the helplessness of the last couple of days licking his insides, relishing the memories in a candle-dusk snare.

_"Bet none of you guessed just how screwed you'd be before the end of the day..."_

He took a deep breath, _Duane's deaddeaddead_, nails nipping his flesh, glancing back at Sam who seemed to find his sandwich the only thing worthy of his glare.

"Then, all of a sudden, you're staring at him like...Galactus at Pyro or something, you know? And the demon left him, just like that, snuffed out. You dropped like a rock, I grabbed you and left. After that I just...waited."

For a long moment, Sam just sat there, sleeves pulled high, jaw leant against his clenched fists, eyes staring straight ahead.

_Please, Sam..._

He couldn't go into details, because that would mean repeating all the crap Duane seemed to have been full of, recalling too vividly the way there had been worn wood against his skin instead of cold concrete for a blink.

"Before...before you came, I...started reciting an exorcism." The voice was odd, the words hushed as they were drawn out. Mirthless chuckle touched the end, heralded the following. "Just...couldn't think of anything else. Figured it was worth..." Sam dropped his hands, shook his head. "Nothing."

He looked at Dean again, eyes bright.

"I don't remember how far I got, but...you think maybe I finished it?" Unvoiced, plain as pain, was fear, _Or if..._

It was terrible to see how small someone as big as Sam could make himself appear.

The way he twitched as Dean's hand landed on his shoulder didn't really help either.

"Did you put in a side order of fireworks?"

It took a moment for the puzzlement to pass, long enough for Dean to drop on his knees, lock eyes again.

"Sam...I don't know what happened. I don't know why it got shredded just because you stared at it but that's the way it looked like. I just know that I've been here for the last day, wondering whether you'd wake up or someone just wearing your skin." The eyes darkened, Sam started to withdraw, Dean's fingers biting into his flesh. "But it didn't. You're Sam, just as much as before."

"So I can kill with my mind and it's okay?" Bitter and dark, so much more than any coffee Dean had ever downed.

He held the gaze, stormcloud crackling with bolts of electricity replaying in the back of his mind, taunting him as if all the answers they needed were in its depths. Sam couldn't be blamed for any of that.

_Drinking himself silly, that easily, but the way the night had ended...?_

"Sam. No. You exorcized and killed a demon. Duane's dead because _I_ shot him."

The hazel eyes, nursing hurt like a treasure, searched his before Sam shook his head, joyless chuckled rippling off his lips.

"You ever wonder what our lives would be like without...all this?" He asked then, gesturing at the room in general, voice quiet.

"Sometimes." That much was true. Going the way of _What if_ just had the tendency of ending with a bottle. "But if wishes were fishes..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know..." Tired now, the voice accompanied a shrug, Dean's fingers slipping off Sam's arm.

An awkward silence, the younger man absentmindedly rubbing a thumb over the marks on his wrists, lost in thought.  
Dean licked his lips, shifted to a crouch.

"Sam...did he hurt you? I mean..."

Confusion met his gaze anew before breaking down into amusement, Sam raising his coloured wrists.

"Dean...what you see is what you get. I'm fine. Nothing a couple of days off curious paths won't fix."

No lies, nothing but easy honesty this time. Question of trust, and with Sam breathing, alive, whole in front of him, it was so very easy to believe.

"What about Meg, then? What has she to do with any of this?"

Sam swallowed at that, turned his eyes back to the half-eaten sandwich.

"I think the same demon possessed Duane."

"We exorcized her, Sam."

"Maybe someone in Hell likes her. Maybe whatever keeps them there's growing weaker. Maybe she was fast. I don't know, but I swear it was her. The same mannerisms, similar phrases...different host."

_Same urge to get in your pants..._

Another pause, broken by Sam's sideways glance at him, voice quiet, tentative.

"You really think it's gone?"

He patted Sam's leg as he rose, answered.

_Doesn't matter. Never going to lay a finger on you again._

"Yeah, I think so. I also think we should take a break. Stay still, rest, take it easy...you know?"

Sad eyes followed him, the smile on Sam's lips gentle, betraying a decision.

"Dean, no. The Demon isn't going to rest. Neither am I. Not as long as there's something I can do about all this. I need to find out what's going on, even more than before. I need to know what's going on with _me_."

Dean looked at him.

_You're really going to do it, then? See this to the end, whatever that may be?_

If he pressed on, he'd only end up with one more family member lost to the Demon.

So in the end, he only nodded.

Hell or high water, didn't really matter.

**-FIN-**

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
I'd just like to admit that I don't have any problems with drinking and would like to keep it that way, so any and all curiosities concerning my depiction of a (post-)hungover Sam are pure guesses.  
The decision to change the POV in the middle of a chapter was because Duane kept whispering in my head all sorts of things only Dean was privy to... 

I decided I really didn't want to solve all the issues the Boys have with each other, just the ones I heaped on them. I wish I succeeded.  
Hopefully this ending was worthy of the build-up. I really should have given them something physical to beat up, though.

Thank You, every single one who's read this drivel, every single one who has left comments, encouraged the bunny.  
Now I'll return to the shorter tales and to brooding over another multi-chapter story...:)


End file.
